


Carry On My Wayward Angel

by whenshewrites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angel Stiles Stilinski, Angst, BAMF Derek Hale, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale is Not a Failwolf, Derek Hale is a Mess, Fallen Angel Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mystery, Non-Human Stiles Stilinski, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Hale is a Little Shit, Sheriff Stilinski Knows About Werewolves, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski is Part of the Hale Pack, Temporary Amnesia, The Hale Pack - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites
Summary: Stiles gave it all up for Derek Hale. The only problem? He doesn't remember a day before he lost his wings.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 48
Kudos: 201





	1. Chapter 1

When Stiles woke up, he wasn’t sure exactly what happened.

He was curled up in the furthest corner of an abandoned alleyway and the air smelled like vomit. The moment Stiles tried to move, a flood of pain crashed over him and he barely held back a sharp cry, one hand flying up to touch his shoulders. His shirt was soaked through and when he drew back, his hand was stained with something red.

Blood. It was blood.

Stiles’s stomach flipped and he barely managed to move before he was dry heaving, the sudden movement making his head spin and pain crash over him in wave after wave of sharp burning. Another cry built up in his throat and he couldn’t hold this one back. The pain was too much.

Stiles didn’t remember how he’d gotten here or why he was bleeding. But it felt like someone had carven canyons into his back and he could feel the blood now, running in rivets down his skin and staining through his torn shirt. The pieces that were left stuck to his skin and in the cold nighttime air, he shivered. 

Something was wrong. Something was wrong and Stiles felt sick again to realize he didn’t know what. Once more, he twisted to the side and heaved, but nothing came up. Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything. He couldn’t remember the last time— the last time— he couldn’t remember a time before tonight. Before now.

Before now with his shirt drenched in blood and the world spinning around him.

Stiles wasn’t fully aware of the door that suddenly opened opposite him, a man in a white apron stepping out with a black trash bag clutched in one hand. But he looked sharply up when the man shouted in surprise and stumbled back. Stiles’s head spun again and he reached one blood-stained hand out, but the man was already stumbling back inside, the door slamming closed behind him.

Stiles’s hand dropped. He felt faint.

And then he heard the distant sound of sirens cut through the night.

The last thing he remembered was the sudden blue and red flash of lights filling the alleyway and the slap of footsteps as someone approached. Stiles looked up to see an older man dressed in a tan uniform, who looked shocked and nearly shied away at seeing him. Stiles tried to say something, but no words came out. His chin dropped to his chest and the man moved forward again, crouching down at his side.

“Son? Son, what the hell happen—”

The words were a blur and Stiles could barely hear them. He felt a hand touch his shoulder and then yank back. He heard the sound of static through a radio.

Then someone covered him in a blanket. Stiles whimpered in pain and everything turned sideways. He saw the man again; seconds before his vision turned to black.

Something was familiar. Something wasn’t right. But Stiles had no idea what.

He closed his eyes and let the darkness take over.

* * *

Derek wasn’t supposed to be on duty.

He’d planned on spending his night off doing something other than paperwork. He’d also planned on spending his night doing something other than dealing with the pack. Honestly, Derek just wanted to pick up some Chinese and read a book. He deserved that, thank you very much.

But right as he was climbing into his Camaro, take-out in a bag and a library book tossed into the passenger-side seat of his car, his phone rang. Derek groaned and glanced down at it, debating whether or not he could pretend not to hear.

But it was the Sheriff’s number. And Derek knew if he wanted to keep his job, he wouldn’t be turning down the Sheriff’s call.

Derek hated everything sometimes. Even more so when he brought the phone to his ear and was told that he needed to  _ ‘come down to the hospital asap’.  _ Because what was a night off anyway?

Derek was close enough that he arrived in less than five minutes. The Sheriff was waiting at the front desk with a pale face when he walked in. Derek eyed him cautiously.

“Sir?”

“There’s been a… I don’t know what…” The Sheriff cursed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I think you should see for yourself, son.”

Derek didn’t know how to react to that. So he let the Sheriff lead him to a hospital room down the hall; one being guarded by two men in uniform. That really should’ve been Derek’s first sign.

He didn’t expect to see a kid in the hospital bed, through. Shirtless and rolled over on his side with bandages wrapping all the way around his back. Derek slowed to a stop and the Sheriff shut the door before approaching with a scent of nervousness.

“I didn’t want to call, but I didn’t know what else to do,” the man said. “I think it might be… supernatural.”

Derek looked at him sharply. The Sheriff picked up a stack of pictures on the side table and passed them over.

And Derek’s breaths stalled in his throat.

Under the bandages, the boy’s back was a bloody mess. There were two long gashes carven down his back; but it was more like the flesh had been ripped out, not carven. Derek didn’t know how the kid was still alive, because most people wouldn’t have survived the blood loss from an injury that bad. He looked at the Sheriff with wide eyes.

“What happened?”

“We don’t know,” the Sheriff said. “The indian restaurant owner on 5th found him like that. Kid’s clothes were drenched in blood but there were no other signs of struggle. He was barely conscious when I found him.”

“So he hasn’t said anything.”

The Sheriff looked troubled, then. Derek raised a brow and the other man glanced at the kid, before shaking his head. “He’s said things.”

“Things?”

“Nothing I understand,” the Sheriff said. “Gibberish, maybe. He’ll start muttering sometimes, but I don’t understand a single thing he says.”

“Gibberish,” Derek repeated, more to himself than the Sheriff. He approached the boy slowly, wrinkling his nose at the stench of blood. There was something else too. Something… electric. The kid didn’t smell right. He didn’t smell human.

“Is he something else?” The Sheriff asked, stepping at Derek’s side. “Is he… one of you?”

“If he was a werewolf, he would already be healing,” Derek said. “But if he were a human, he’d be dead. I don’t know what this is.”

“So he’s not like Miss Martin, then?”

Derek knew the Sheriff was still trying to figure things out. He didn’t remember exactly when the man had figured things out, but it’d been recent. Derek thought that should strike him as strange, but if he lingered on the thought he just… stopped. At some point, the Sheriff had found out about the supernatural. That’s all that mattered.

Derek shook his head, trying to brush off those thoughts. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t be sure until I talked to him.”

The Sheriff nodded and turned to look back at the boy. There was a steady beeping in the air and if Derek listened closely, he could hear the boy’s quiet heartbeats. He should be dead, from the photos Derek had seen. But he seemed far from it.

And his scent. It made Derek’s skin crawl.

It was strange. It was wrong. And somehow, it was almost familiar.

Clenching his jaw, Derek shook his head again. “Do you want me to stick around until he wakes up?”

“I’d appreciate it, son.”

Derek mourned for the Chinese food left abandoned in his Camaro, but it was probably already cold. Silently, he nodded, and the Sheriff’s scent softened in relief. Plus, Derek didn’t think he could leave if he wanted to. 

This kid— Derek  _ wanted  _ to stay until he woke up. He wanted to talk to him. He wanted to know what the hell he was. And what had happened.

Once more, he glanced down at the pictures in his hands. The gashes were both the same size and about three inches from each other. It looked like they went deep. But why there? What was the point?

And in the end, the kid was still alive. Why not finish the job?

Derek blinked, disturbed by his own thoughts. He followed the Sheriff back into the hall and the man relieved the other two deputies on shift. Derek took his place next to the door with the promise to call if things changed.

Derek half-hoped they would soon. Not only so he could get on with his night off, but so he could chat with this boy. His scent clogged Derek’s nose. It made him uncomfortable.

Derek shifted nervously and prepared himself for the wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles dreamed he was living in the clouds.

The air was cool against his skin and he felt free _.  _ He knew he could go anywhere he wanted and he knew his body would carry him there without fail. But he also knew that he wouldn’t; because his anchor was here. His anchor was here and it kept him in place.

His anchor was in this town. This little town called Beacon Hills.

Humans were fragile, dainty little things, Stiles had come to realize. 

They fell in love with simple pleasures that didn’t last long, and surrendered themselves to things that would eventually turn to dust. There was so much to their world and at the same time, nothing at all. It was all built up to eventually be torn down.

Stiles hadn’t meant to fall in love with them. But then he went off task one day and ran into a man that reminded him a little bit of Heaven.

Except, he wasn’t really a man at all. 

Stiles had lived on earth for so long, he’d begun to consider it a second home. Not the entire earth, perhaps, but the little town he’d been assigned to. One that Stiles hadn’t expected to last very long. But Beacon Hills continued to thrive, despite the trials it faced over and over again.

Stiles had been here for longer than he could remember.

The werewolves were new.

It was a woman he ran into first. The moment Stiles stepped into the coffee shop, he could feel the change in the air. His attention zeroed in on the brown-haired woman sitting at the table across the shop and he realized she was watching him too. Eyes flickered with red and he could see two types of faces underneath her tight smile.

One that radiated peace and one that radiated power.

For the first time in a long time, Stiles didn’t know what to do. He stood there for a long moment, staring.

Then he found himself crossing the shop and dropping down in the seat across from her. The woman didn’t offer a change of face, but a little more red leaked into her eyes. She tilted her head and surveyed him, one finger circling around the lid of her coffee cup.

“You,” she said with a surprisingly soft voice. “Are no human, my boy.”

Stiles chuckled. “What gave it away?”

“You are unlike any creature I have ever laid eyes on before,” she narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing in Beacon Hills?”

“I’ve been here for centuries,” Stiles said. Her eyes sparked.

“Centuries?”

“Long enough that I can tell you this palace serves better mochas than lattes,” Stiles said, nodding at her coffee. The woman’s smile widened and she offered out a hand; Stiles could see claws underneath her nails like a second skin invisible to the human eye. It made a shiver run up his spine; one of excitement rather than fear. Stiles shook it carefully.

“Talia Hale.”

“Stiles.”

One brow arched and Stiles grinned. 

“It’s shortened for a good reason. Trust me.”

He could feel an itch underneath his skin as she drew away, and they talked. Someone else was watching him; Stiles knew that after an hour. But he didn’t see anyone each time he glanced over his shoulder, and he really didn’t care. By the time the she-wolf departed and Stiles stepped out into the nighttime air, he was grinning from ear to ear and felt lighter than he had in years.

But then a hand caught him around the throat and yanked him off the sidewalk with a flash of wings. Stiles didn’t have a chance to react before he was slammed against the alleyway wall, golden eyes glaring at him.

“What do you think you’re doing, Mieczysław?”

“Matt,” Stiles said, alarm dying in his throat. He arched a brow at the angel opposite him, who was all flashing eyes and cold sneers. “Been watching me all day? You enjoyed the show, I trust?”

“Do you realize what kind of creature you were just talking to?”

“A werewolf,” Stiles said, excitement bleeding into his words. “Do you know they have two faces? I could see it underneath her smile. And those eyes—”

“Werewolves are the devil’s work,” Matthew snarled, cutting him off. “You should know better.”

Stiles’s smile melted. He blinked at the angel and tight fingers slowly released his throat. Stiles rubbed at the raw skin and Matthew shook his head, looking at Stiles like he was a confused child. 

“I’m only here to warn you, Mieczyslaw. Stay away from them.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the type of interaction that will make sure you stay on this earth,” Matthew said, eyes glinting. “Without your wings.”

Stiles’s blood turned cold. He watched as white wings protruded from Matthew’s back and the angel took off into the darkening sky. He blinked a few times at the space where he’d been, before touching his neck again. Stiles could feel where Matthew’s fingers had been; tight and threatening. 

_ Werewolves are the devil’s work.  _ He shook his head.

Stiles thought the devil’s work would be a little more bloodthirsty and a lot less kind. He hadn’t seen bloodlust in Talia Hale’s eyes. Only sharp intelligence and powerful authority. Quietly, Stiles lowered his hand and glanced heavenward again.

“That of the devil?” he asked softly, peering at the stars. “Could they really be that of the devil?”

The night didn’t answer. But Stiles thought he heard a distant howl somewhere beyond the town. One that sounded a little lost and a little sad.

“The devil’s work,” he murmured, gazing back out at the street. “Hm.”

_ Hm. _

Suddenly, the image was gone. The feeling of the nighttime air against his skin was no more and Stiles could only feel pain. Pain moving through his entire body and setting his skin on fire. He jerked awake with a scream in his throat and only faintly became aware of the hands pushing him back down. Stiles twisted in agony as he was pressed against the wounds on his back.

For a moment, he slipped in and out of darkness. Stiles could hear sharp voices and a loud beeping. It filled his head and made his stomach twist. Someone was touching his face. Someone else was pulling his eyelids open and shining a light in his eyes.

Stiles tried to claw himself back into his head, away from this place of bright lights and loud noises. But it was gone— that world was gone. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been dreaming about.

Someone else shouted something. Automatically, the hands were gone and Stiles slumped down against the bed with a sob. He was faintly aware of footsteps approaching cautiously and then a hand touching his arm.

“Hey,” a female voice said, words careful and soft. “Hey, sweetie, are you with me?”

Stiles slowly blinked his eyes open. He flinched against the bright overhead light and the female voice murmured an apology. To his surprise, she flipped it off and they were left in the dim light coming through the window. Stiles opened his eyes again and glanced over.

The woman standing beside his bed wore a gentle expression, face framed by curly brown hair. She had a clipboard in hand but didn’t seem to be paying it any attention. Instead, her eyes were searching Stiles up and down.

“You’ve been out for nearly a day,” she said. “Do you have a name, sweetie?”

“Mi… Mie...” M something, the name slipping from his mind. Stiles shook his head and went with the next best thing. “Stiles.”

“Just Stiles?”

He nodded, feeling a little faint again. There was a tube going into his arm, Stiles realized, some clear liquid pumping through it. Next to his bed, a monitor was steadily beeping, and Stiles jerked as he realized his other hand was handcuffed to the bed. Confusion swamped his thoughts.

The nurse’s lips pursed as she followed his gaze. “I told them that wasn’t necessary, but they insisted. Precautions my ass.”

“Have I done something wrong?”

The nurse blinked at him. Then her face softened and she settled down in the chair beside his bed. “My name’s Melissa, sweetie. I’m not here to ask you any questions or make any assumptions, just make sure you’re doing okay. So tell me, how’s the pain?”

Stiles shifted a little and winced. His back felt like it was one fire. “Hurts.”

“On a scale from one to ten?”

“... Seven.”

Melissa nodded and jotted that down. She opened her mouth again, looking like she was going to say something else, but then the door opened. Stiles looked over to see a green-eyed man glancing in, his eyes flickering red when he looked at Stiles.

And Stiles jerked. Because somehow—  _ somehow—  _ he recognized the man. He recognized those eyes. That face. 

The monitor began to beep like crazy and Stiles jerked against the handcuff keeping him restrained, panic making his throat close. He recognized that man, he just didn’t know  _ how. _

Suddenly, the man’s eyes flashed to pure red and his gaze turned dangerous. And one name filtered through Stiles’s hazy mind.

“Hale.”

* * *

The name was spat out and Derek blinked, staring at the kid. He didn’t even realize his eyes were flashing until Melissa was on her feet and shoving him right back out of the room, the door closing behind them. She hit him over the head with her clipboard and glared.

“Deputy Hale, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I— I—”

“You nothing,” Melissa said, lips pursed. “Can’t you see you’re terrifying him? Care to explain how Stiles recognized your face so easily?”

Derek stared at her and then looked back at the closed door. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t _ know?” _

“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Derek said, and if Melissa had been a werewolf, she might’ve heard his heart skip a beat. Because Derek could’ve sworn he had. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know where, but he recognized those eyes. From the moment he’d caught them looking at him in surprise, Derek had no doubt about that.

But at the same time, he was sure he’d never seen Stiles before. Not before he came bloodied and unconscious into the hospital, that is.

“I’ve never seen him until now,” Derek said again, words jumbled together. “How does he know my name?”

Melissa searched his face but Derek must have looked as confused as he felt, because her suspicious expression faded. She glanced down the hall and then stepped aside, nodding toward the door. “I don’t know, but John’s already told me he’s probably not… human. So I’m assuming this is your place of expertise right now.”

Derek really didn’t think so. But he pushed back into the room anyway, watching as Stiles tensed on the bed the second their eyes met. Once more, the boy’s lips formed the word  _ ‘Hale’  _ and he looked just as shocked as Derek felt.

“You know me?” Derek said, moving closer. The boy shook his head.

“No.”

His heart didn’t skip a beat. Derek set his jaw and moved closer, watching the boy tense. Derek could smell the anxiety and pain wafting off of him and without thinking, reaching out to touch his arm. The boy made a noise of surprise as Derek leached away some of the pain and black lines started to climb up his arm. Stiles’s amber eyes snapped to his, looking startled.

“What are you?”

Derek nearly yanked away. He hadn’t expected  _ that. _

“You’re not human,” Stiles said, searching his face. Silently, Derek shook his head. 

“Neither are you.”

It was more of a statement than a question, but Stiles still looked shocked. Derek could tell by the way his scent changed and his eyes widened, that the boy was as surprised as he was. In fact, he looked even more confused. Derek readjusted his hold on the boy’s arm and sunk down into the chair next to his bed, arching a brow.

“Do you know that?”

Stiles just looked at him quietly. Derek swallowed before changing tactics. 

“How were you attacked? What hurt you?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Once more, there was no skip to his heartbeat. Derek stared, unsure of what to do with that information. How did he not know? What was he supposed to do with that? “Well, then what do you know?”

Stiles’s eyes flashed and he set his jaw. “Nothing.”

Confusion mixed with irritation welled in Derek’s throat. He’d expected to come in here and figure out exactly what the hell this was— what the hell Stiles was. But it seemed like he wasn’t the only one grasping for straws. Stiles looked at him defiantly and Derek worked his jaw.

“You don’t remember anything.”

“No.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that? What are you doing in Beacon Hills? How did you get here?”

Once more, Derek was only rewarded with a flat gaze. He drew his hand back in frustration and Stiles made a soft noise of pain, his scent souring again. Derek tried not to focus on that or focus on Stiles’s scent, which had clogged his nose. 

It was so wrong. Derek didn’t understand, but he didn’t like it.

“I’d suggest you start remembering,” he said, pushing himself up. Stiles looked at him with a clenched jaw and Derek started toward the door, only to freeze. Slowly, he turned back around. “How did you know my name?”

“Your name?”

“My last name,” Derek said, approaching again. “Hale.”

The boy’s face did something strange. His heartbeat picked up and for the first time since entering, Derek thought they might be getting somewhere. But then Stiles raised his jaw and shrugged. “I had a dream.”

“What.”

“I had a dream,” the boy said again, his tone dangerous. 

“About what?”

Amber eyes flashed. “I don’t know.”

Derek growled at the back of his throat and clenched his fists in anger. Stiles shied back at the sound, his eyes widening again. Derek realized that maybe, if this kid really didn’t know what he was or what Derek was, wolfing out probably wasn’t the best idea. But Stiles was already pushing his buttons.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Derek said, turning away again. “Because you’ll be staying in this room until we get some actual answers.”

Not that he thought Stiles could actually leave. If the pictures he’d seen were the wounds that currently massacred the boy’s back, then Stiles was going to be in this hospital room for a while. Which didn’t help Derek one bit— what kind of supernatural creature had such crappy healing? 

What the hell was a Stiles?

Derek growled again and shoved out of the room. He didn’t even look back but he could feel Stiles’s scent change again. This time, the boy smelled angry, and electricity sparked in his scent again. Electricity and something else Derek couldn’t place. Something he wasn’t used to.

It got under his skin.

Melissa was waiting outside and she raised a brow when she saw Derek’s face. Two hands rested on her hips and the woman sighed. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Okay, then what did you learn?”

“That’s he’s annoying,” Derek said, starting down the hallway. He could call the Sheriff, but the man clearly hadn’t left the hospital from how fresh his scent still was. Melissa made a noise at his back, but Derek didn’t turn around again.

Stiles didn’t know anything. How could Stiles not know anything?

It was frustrating. But beyond that, Derek couldn’t stick around for much longer. Because he could feel himself losing control. He was barely keeping his eyes from flashing.

There was something about Stiles. Something different. Something wrong.

Derek hated it.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles realized fairly quickly that he wasn’t going anywhere.

He tugged half-heartedly on the cuff around his wrist before giving up to gaze back at the closed door. The pain had come back tenfold the second Hale had let go of his wrist and Stiles quietly hated himself for wishing the… whatever he was, would come back.

Hale got under his skin. His eyes made Stiles nervous. But at the same time, the very occurrence of him being close had made Stiles feel a little less like he was dying. It'd calmed him down and freaked him out in a way he couldn't explain.

Stiles glanced at the cuff again and then twisted to try and get a better view of his bandages. But the sudden movement made the pain worsen and he bit back a cry, going shock still. Whatever was going from the tube into his arm wasn’t doing much for the pain.

Stiles settled back against his pillows right as the door opened again. He tensed on the bed as an unfamiliar man peered inside— but no. Not unfamiliar. 

Stiles had seen his face seconds before he’d passed out.

It was an older man with greying hair and a slight beard; one who stepped cautiously into the room and raised his hands as if he expected Stiles to freak out at the sight of him. But Stiles only watched him quietly, not moving as the man sunk down into the chair next to his bed.

“Good morning, son, I’m Sheriff Stilinski. How are you feeling?”

“You’re the one that came for me.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but the man still nodded with the small hint of a smile. His eyes skipped over the bandages crisscrossing Stiles’s bare back and shoulders before going back to his face. “My Deputy says you don’t remember anything before passing out.”

“Deputy,” Stiles said, slightly confused. Then he clenched his jaw. “Hale.”

“Deputy Derek Hale, yes.”

“He’s not human,” Stiles said quietly, and the Sheriff’s eyes sparked. Stiles studied his face. “But you are.”

“Yes, son, I’m about as human as it gets. But do you mind if we talk about you right now?”

“There’s nothing to say,” Stiles said, pulling further into himself. Because he’d been racking his mind ever since Derek had left and that was the truth. Stiles didn’t remember a single thing before waking up in the alleyway. He didn’t know his age, he didn’t know where he’d grown up, or how he’d gotten there. He didn’t remember anything except his name, a flash of red eyes, and Hale.

_ Derek Hale. _

“I don’t know how it happened,” Stiles said. “I don’t remember.”

“Not a thing?”

Stiles clenched his jaw and didn’t answer. The Sheriff searched his face for a moment before sighing with a nod. 

“Right, well, amnesia can be a side effect of trauma. You were alone in the alleyway, son, and there were no signs of struggle or any other evidence of another person. You’re not being charged with anything, but you’ve managed to freak the entire department out.”

“Does that mean I get to leave?”

The Sheriff cast a dubious eye to his bandages. “I don’t think you’ll be leaving for a few weeks still, Stiles.”

It was the first time the man had used Stiles’s name. And for some reason, it made him jolt.

“We still don’t know what happened, so I’ll make sure someone stays close on rotation near your door,” the Sheriff said. “We won’t let anything happen to you again, son.”

“Not Derek.”

The older man’s eyebrows shot up. Stiles swallowed hard.

“Don’t let it be Derek.”

“... Right.”

Stiles nodded and watched him turn away; but then the man hesitated and turned back around, leaning over to unlock the cuff. He offered a small smile before turning back toward the door, taking it with him. Stiles watched in silence until he was gone.

He rubbed a hand over his raw wrist then. The metal had cut in earlier when Stiles had been freaking out. He glanced back at the door, but all was quiet now.

Stiles shifted his shoulders again. This time, he bit back a noise of pain and tried to focus on where he could feel the wounds. It was like they were still open and raw; like when he’d first been found. It was like they were never going to heal. Never going to go away.

Stiles sunk back down onto the bed and turned his face into the pillow. Part of him wanted to scream in frustration and confusion, and the other part just wanted to lie quietly until he was okay again. Until everything was okay again.

But he didn’t know when that’d be. 

Stiles closed his eyes and dreamed of being okay again.

* * *

“He doesn’t want me around,” Derek said. The Sheriff looked a little sheepish but shook his head and Derek ground his teeth together, forcing a nod. “Fine.”

“Take the day off, son,” the Sheriff said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I know you missed having it yesterday. Consider this an amendment.”

Derek frowned at the floor, remembering the Chinese food he’d left abandoned in his car. That wasn’t so appetizing now. Still though, he nodded, and the Sheriff squeezed his shoulder before turning away. Derek watched him move back down the hospital hall before glancing at Stiles’s door a few feet away.

For some reason, he was sorely tempted to duck back inside. He didn’t know why, he didn’t know what he’d get out of it, but it was like an itch underneath his skin.

Derek growled in irritation. That was so stupid.

He’d go back to the loft, order in food that wasn’t going to poison him, and maybe kick the pack out. That had been the point of yesterday, after all.

Except the loft was empty when he arrived.

Of course, none of the betas left a note, and they also hadn’t cleaned up after themselves. Derek felt like he was living with literal children sometimes. Was it that hard to wash a dish? They knew how to work the dishwasher, Derek knew that much.

He nearly leaped out of his skin when the loft door opened, turning around with flashing red eyes. Peter hesitated with one foot over the threshold and tilted his head, studying Derek’s face.

“Why, aren’t you a little jumpy today, nephew?”

Derek blinked the red away from his eyes and turned back toward gathering up the dirty dishes that cluttered the coffee table. Peter swayed into his personal apace and leaned forward, taking a deep breath— before jerking back.

“Derek, what the hell is that?”

“What.”

“What have you been around?” Peter said, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like dirt and ash.”

“I think you’re mistaking our scents,” Derek said flatly, stalking into the kitchen. He was been hoping that’d be enough of a message, but Peter continued to follow him anyway. Derek dropped the dishes into the sink and sighed as Peter eyed him curiously. “What.”

“You stink.”

“Thanks, I haven’t had the chance to take a shower, I’ve been stuck on a shift all night, and my Chinese take-out went bad in the Camaro. You want to go clean that up while I attempt to not-stink anymore?”

“You don’t smell like the lack of a shower or old food,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. Then he smirked a little. “At least, not to the extremes.”

“Peter?”

“Hm?”

“Shut up and get out of my loft.”

Peter only huffed. It was pretty much like he lived here now anyway; Derek didn’t remember when his uncle had basically staked his claim in one of the guest bedrooms, but he’d been around for a while now. Or… yeah, that was right. Wasn’t it? Derek couldn’t remember exactly.

“I’m just saying,” Peter said, as if Derek wasn’t being obvious that he didn’t care a thing that Peter ‘just said’ about. “You smell like death.”

That made Derek pause. He gave his uncle a confused look.

“What does that smell like?”

“Dirt,” Peter said, that smug smirk still on his face. “And ash. Seriously, nephew, were you not listening?”

_ Dirt and ash.  _ Derek glanced down at himself and his rumpled Deputy's uniform and remembered the scent that clung around Stiles. One that was almost overpowered by the smell of pain and blood, but was still there. One that he couldn’t quite place. “Huh.”

“... Care to expand on that?”

“No.”

That made Peter roll his eyes. But Derek ignored him, heading back into the living room. He grabbed the nearest computer— he thought it was Erica’s— and flipped it open.

And loud  _ sounds  _ proceeded to fill the air. Derek startled and snapped it shut, throwing it back onto the coffee table. Peter gave him an amused look.

“You must be so proud of your betas, Derek.”

“Please go away.”

“What’s gotten you so worked up? I expected you to be ecstatic that the loft was all nice and empty.”

Derek raised both eyebrows and fixed his uncle with a pointed look before glancing from him, to the door, and then back. Peter only snorted.

“I wasn’t talking about me.”

“Shame, because I am.”

“Would you like to use my laptop, nephew?” Peter said, eyes glinting. “Or would you like to go back to using your betas and hope only one tab of that delightful pasttime is open.”

Derek glared at him for a moment. Things were never good when his uncle was actively getting involved in his affairs, but Derek didn’t want to touch Erica’s laptop with a ten-foot pole at this point. To be honest, he never should’ve trusted his betas electronics in the first place. “Fine.”

“One question first,” Peter said, and Derek clenched his jaw so hard his teeth gnashed. “I want to know why.”

“Why?”

“You never accept my help,” Peter said with a sharp smile. “So yes, I want to know why. Why you need it.”

For a moment, Derek was sorely tempted to point out that his uncle rarely offered his help anyway. And when he did, there was always a price. But he only ground his teeth together and shrugged. “There’s… something at the hospital. I want to know what.”

“Something?” Peter actually looked intrigued. Derek shook his head.

“I don’t know what. It’s a boy, but it’s not a boy. He was hurt last night and he smells wrong. He smells like—”  _ Smoke and ash.  _ Peter’s eyes cleared with understanding.

“He’s supernatural.”

“He’s something.”

“Something dangerous?”

Derek didn’t know the answer to that either. It was frustrating how little he knew. He only shook his head and his uncle reached underneath the couch, pulling out a silver laptop. He pushed it into Derek’s hands with a bright grin and then vanished into the kitchen.

Derek rolled his eyes at the theatrics. 

To be honest, flipping open Peter’s computer, he really didn’t know what he was looking for. Lydia always did the research. She had ever since… Derek blinked, coming up blank.  Then he growled lowly, shaking his head. The point was, he didn’t know what he was looking for. He didn’t know anything.

_ What kind of creature smelled like death, u _ _nless it was a creature of death itself?_

But Stiles didn’t seem like a monster. The moment that thought crossed his mind, Derek could’ve scoffed at it.  Because he didn’t know anything about Stiles. And clearly, Stiles didn’t know anything about himself either.

Peter came back out of the kitchen at one point, stirring a spoon through his tea, and leaned over Derek’s shoulder with a hum. Then, seeing the blank page Derek had been staring at for five minutes, he chuckled.

“Clearly you know what you’re looking for.”

“Shut up.”

“Maybe I should pay this boy a visit,” Peter said thoughtfully and Derek tensed. He shot his uncle a look of glowing red eyes and bared his teeth.

“No.”

“Oh, protective, are we?”

“I know what your visits entail,” Derek said around fangs. “Don’t go near him, uncle, I’ll know if you do. And I won’t hesitate to put you in the ground again.”

“And here I thought we were getting along.”

Derek rolled his eyes and turned back to the blank webpage. But before he could even consider typing anything in, his phone started to buzz. For the second time in two days— the second time he’d been given a day off in two days— it was the Sheriff’s number.

But this time, Derek didn’t hesitate before picking the phone up. “Sir?”

“It’s Stiles.”

“What happened?”

Derek could hear distant shouts and tensed even more, feeling his uncle’s curiosity peak behind him. But Derek didn’t have a chance to send him away before the Sheriff’s voice was coming through again.  “Nothing happened, exactly. Or at least, not to any of the staff. Or the Deputies on guard.”

“But something's wrong."

“It's Stiles.”

"What?"

“It's Stiles, Derek," the Sheriff said. "He's... gone.”


	4. Chapter 4

Smoke and fire plagued his dreams.

Twenty years after meeting the female Alpha, Stiles jerked awake with a gasp, tears tracing down his cheeks. He reached out blindly, searching for the light, but his fingers found something soft instead. 

His wings had come out without his permission, furled around his shoulder like a shield. Stiles dropped his chin to his chest and swallowed hard, throat constricted too tight for him to breathe properly. He could still smell the smoke. Hear the screams.

_ The screams. _

Groaning, Stiles rubbed a hand over his face. Goosebumps raced up his arms, but he wasn’t cold. The breeze swept in through his open window and Stiles could’ve sworn it was tainted with the scent of ash too. But that was just in his head, he knew that. He thought he knew that, at least.

But something was wrong.

Stiles glanced out his window to see the faintest flicker of red and blue lights cutting through the nighttime air. He could hear a distant siren and if he listened hard enough, the sound of panicked voices too. A radio, sharp static making his head hurt.

A man’s voice.

“Hale house,” the voice said. “Fire alarm, 10-70.”

Stiles tensed. A shiver ran up his spine and he moved from the bed, feet carrying him to the window. He could see the flashing of siren lights now, and smell the tainted air. 

Fire. The air was tainted by fire.

Stiles had lived on this earth long enough to know that fire was to be feared. His breaths lodged in his throat and Stiles just stood there for a moment, wings spread, goosebumps racing up his arms.

Then suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder. Stiles didn’t turn around, feeling the other angel step to his side. He knew who had been assigned to keep an eye on him.

Stiles had been told he was being… observed. Because sometimes, spending too long on the face of the earth turned the minds of angels. Sometimes, he was told, it made them question their purpose. Their morals. Their mission.

Stiles knew what happened to the angels that questioned their mission.

“Don’t fall prey to the sounds, Mieczysław,” Matthew said, breaths warm against the shell of his ear. “You’re not here to interfere with human affairs.”

“But I can hear them screaming,” Stiles said softly. “I can smell the smoke, Matt. They’re going to die.”

“That’s not under our control.”

But Stiles couldn’t make himself just stand there. He tensed underneath Matthew’s hand and tried to take a step forward, toward the open window, but Matthew’s grip tightened. His fingers dug into Stiles's shoulder.

“Mieczysław, there will be consequences for this.”

Stiles’s heart thudded against his chest. He wanted to move, wanted to fly, legs trembling with the effort of holding himself back. He could feel Matthew’s breaths near his ear as the other angel looked out and watched the sirens beside him.

“None of it is under our control.”

“I was sent here to protect Beacon Hills,” Stiles said quietly. “But I’m just supposed to sit back and watch burn?”

“You were sent here to  _ observe _ Beacon Hills,” Matthew corrected. “Not interfere with what happens.”

Stiles tried to hold himself back. But as he closed his eyes, trying to block out the sight of flashing lights, he could hear the screams even louder. Screams and… and howls. Sharp, terrified, and full of pain. And suddenly, Stiles couldn’t stand still any longer.

Matthew seemed to recognize this. “Mieczysław—”

Stiles yanked away with Matthew’s voice lost to his ears. Before he could reel himself in, Stiles was leaping out the open window and cutting through the night, wings spreading open as he followed the smell of smoke.

It led him beyond the town, toward the woods. Where a house was ablaze.

The flames licked hungrily into the sky and the air was poisoned by the scent of death and fear. Stiles dropped until his feet touched the ground and then raced forward, wings folding into his back once more. There were hands that clawed through melting bars. The sounds of screams made his stomach turn and a sickness Stiles had never experienced before crashed over him.

He made it as far as the doorway, turning his face against the heat. And then he was knocked backward.

Stiles barely caught himself, eyes snapping to the barrier that held him back; a line of black. A line of black that looked like nothing more than specks of dust, but when Stiles tried to surge forward again, he was once more thrown back.

A shout of despair rose in his throat. There was a flutter of wings behind him.

“You cannot alter the events that must occur, Mieczysław,” Matthew said, moving forward. Stiles spun toward him, clenching his hands into fists.

“They’re dying!”

“No,” Matthew said, eyes flicking emotionlessly to the curling flames. The hands had pulled back from the bars. The screams had faded. “Most of them are already at peace.”

“Peace?  _ Peace?  _ Is that what you call this?”

Matthew looked at him calmly. Stiles turned back toward the flames and felt it taking his own breath away. Felt the fire like it was against his own skin. A final, broken howl cut through the air and Stiles knew he recognized it.

The final cry of Talia Hale.

Stiles dropped to his knees and heard the faint sound of sirens at his back. Matthew moved forward again, one hand dropping to Stiles’s shoulder. “You disobeyed orders, Mieczysław.”

“I don’t care.”

“You know what happens to those who disobey orders.”

Stiles turned to look up at the angel. His face glowed in the firelight and Stiles thought his white wings looked like they themselves were on fire. He clenched his jaw and glared and Matthew sighed, gentle fingers running down his arm.

“This is twice now, Mieczysław, that you’ve been warned. I’ll remind you that there won’t be a third chance.”

His fingers traced up Stiles’s wings; he didn’t even remember when they’d come back out. And suddenly, his touch was too hot. Stiles cried out and tried to twist away but Matthew’s fingers tightened, a single feather ripping away as Stiles tried to yank loose.

And when Matthew let it drop to the ground, the feather was pure black. Just like the wings coming out of Stiles’s back as his chest rose and fell in heaves, chin dropped against his chest.

“Twice now,” Matthew said again. “That's your warning. There won’t be a third.”

And in the crackle of flames and the sound of approaching sirens, Matthew was gone. Stiles felt his wings pull back in, vanishing out of sight. Out of fear, out of shame. Out of sorrow. He didn’t move despite the voices that suddenly filled the air and the footsteps that raced toward him.

That's how Stiles met Sheriff Stilinski.  That’s how he became the sole witness to the Hale fire. 

And that’s how one black feather came in the possession of the first Beacon Hills resident to officially meet an angel. 

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Erica said. “But what the hell are we looking for?”

“His name is Stiles.”

Lydia pursed her lips. “What the hell is a Stiles?”

Derek clenched his jaw and glared at his pack. But before he could say a word, Peter stepped to his side with a smug smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. “My nephew here doesn’t know. Stiles is something, we just don’t know what.”

“We?” Scott said, eyes gleaming with mistrust. Peter grinned at him.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m in on this now.”

Derek didn’t know when he’d agreed to that or what his uncle’s sudden obsession with this… Stiles was, but he didn’t have time to explain. It’d taken the pack long enough to gather at the loft and that had come with a fair amount of complaining on its own.

If any one of them wanted to complain about Peter, they could do it afterward.

After they found Stiles.

“So we’re going after something supernatural,” Boyd said, watching Derek’s face. Derek met his gaze and nodded, and after a moment, the beta nodded. “We’ll find him.”

Derek didn’t know a time when he hadn’t appreciated his second.

“Split into groups,” Derek said. “Search the town. I don’t know how far he could’ve gotten, but he was injured badly. So it can't be far.”

"Injured?" Lydia said, raising an eyebrow. “How bad is 'injured', exactly?”

“There'd been an incident,” Derek said, glancing at his uncle again. Then he focused back on the pack. “It was Sheriff Stilinski who found him in the first place and by all accounts, the boy should’ve been dead. The Sheriff asked us personally to find him.”

“So he’s a criminal then.”

“He’s a victim.”

Erica’s brows shot up and she studied Derek’s face. He tried to ignore that. 

“But that’s— that’s not the point. We still don’t know what he’s capable of and the last time I saw him, he wasn’t healing. So if you find him, you call me. I’ll take him back to the Sheriff myself."

A series of quiet nods went around the loft. One by one, his pack turned and filtered out of the loft, until it was only Derek left with Peter again. But he was  _ not  _ getting stuck with his uncle. Derek grabbed his keys and started toward the door too, when Peter caught his arm.

Derek turned toward him with a glare. “What.”

“Normally, nephew, I don’t care about the things you and your pack get into. But I don’t like whatever this is.”

Derek tugged his arm away. “No one asked you to interfere.”

Peter’s smile almost seemed a little forced. Which was unusual for him. “Yes, Derek, I know that. But I suggest that if you find this boy again, you stay cautious around him. I’m not sure I’d trust whatever he is.”

“There’s not an 'if' to it. We are going to find him.”

Peter’s expression was too sharp for Derek’s liking. Derek clenched his jaw and held his uncle’s gaze, letting a little bit of red bleed into his eyes.

“And if you find him, Peter, you won’t lay a hand on him. You’ll call us. Call me. Understood?”

“You have my solemn word, nephew.”

Derek hadn’t trusted Peter’s ‘solemn word’ since the fire. And since he’d come back from the dead, he’d barely trusted his words that involved breathing at all, solemn or not. But Derek still nodded curtly and started toward the door, gripping his keys tighter. Peter didn’t follow him.

Derek didn’t know if he was relieved or unsettled by that.

Unsettled, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I might include flashbacks like these. That's not too confusing for you guys, is it? This fic is a total open road so things can be played around with an adjusted, but I thought some insight into Stiles's past life might be fun!
> 
> Of course, I adore you all. I hope you guys are staying safe and doing well!


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles wasn’t sure how he got here.

He was in the hospital room surrounded by the sound of beeping and the hint of faint voices when he fell asleep, and then Stiles woke up when a sharp animalistic screech filled the air and he realized he was standing barefoot in the woods, in front of an old burnt shell of a house.

Stiles didn’t remember how he got from point A to point B. But the moment he laid eyes on the house, he saw flashes of fire, smelled the faint hint of smoke, and knew he’d been here before.

He'd been here before. Stood in this very spot. And watched the house burn down.

Stiles blinked a few times and experimentally rolled back his shoulders, trying to swallow down the panic rising in his throat. To his surprise, he wasn’t struck down by a sudden bellowing of pain. Gingerly, he reached up and touched his bandages, still hissing at the point of contact, but it didn’t make him feel as faint before.

It felt... scabbed over. Raw.

Wrong.

Stiles swallowed hard and glanced around. He was in the woods and it was nightfall. How long he’d been walking, he didn't know, but his feet were bloody. Scraped up and covered in mud, stinging from the very action of standing among the leaves.

Stiles closed his eyes and tried in vain to remember how he’d gotten here. How a hospital room had turned to the forest. But he had no recollection of even waking up. No memories of ever leaving the hospital, much less heading toward these woods.

He remembered the faint tang of smoke, though. Flashes of red that burned at the back of his eyes and clogged up his throat.

And some unfamiliar howl that cut through his ears. One full of pain and anger.

But before he could get too lost into his thoughts, there was a crack behind him. Stiles spun around to see an older man standing among the trees, his eyes glowing blue in the nighttime. The air around him stank like ash and his eyes glittered as he stepped forward; Stiles stepped back.

“It’s a little late to be wandering around the woods, isn't it?” the man said, his tone sharply amused. “Especially with such a… lack of clothing.”

Stiles glanced down at himself. He was barefooted and wearing nothing but the hospital gown he’d woken up in. The top of his right shoulder was unbuttoned so the end of his bandages fluttered a little in the nighttime breeze. Stiles had no doubts he looked like a mess. 

“You’re the boy,” the man said, moving closer. “But not really a boy, are you?”

“Who are you?”

“Peter Hale,” the man said casually. “The uncle of Derek Hale. Whom I’ve heard you’ve the pleasure of meeting.”

“Wouldn't exactly call it a pleasure.

That made Peter laugh. “Oh, I  _ like  _ you, Stiles.”

Stiles didn’t feel very relieved at that or the fact the man knew his name, taking another step back as Peter took one forward. The man held up his hands with a sharp grin and the moonlight caught his blue eyes again.

“Do you know what I am?”

Stiles clenched his jaw and glared. Peter chuckled.

“Do you know where you are?”

Stiles glanced back over his shoulder. For a moment, instead of a dark house, he saw one on fire. Flames that leaped into the sky and sharp screams that filled the air. He could hear the distant sound of sirens and then felt a pain underneath his bandages, so sudden, he couldn’t help a startled cry leaving his lips.

Stiles looked sharply away. Peter looked intrigued.

“There was a fire here,” Stiles said, meeting the man’s gaze once more. “Wasn’t there?”

And the man’s grin slipped.

In a moment, there was a hand wrapped around Stiles’s neck and he stumbled back as Peter pushed him backward, fangs extending from the man’s mouth and claws tipping against Stiles’s skin. They touched near Stiles’s ear and he shuddered, Peter’s breaths warm against his skin. 

“What do you know about this place, Stiles?”

“Get off me!”

Stiles moved without thinking, driving his elbow into Peter’s stomach and kicking him back as the man doubled over. Peter growled in anger and his face shifted to something hideous, eyes glowing brighter as he stalked forward. Stiles stumbled away, hands turning into fists at his sides. The wounds across his back screamed in pain.

Then a new howl struck the air.

“Peter!”

Stiles’s eyes snapped beyond the blue-eyed man and his heart nearly stopped when he saw the red eyes of Hale— Derek. There were two Hales now. One that was slightly murderous and one that was downright psychotic. Standing behind Derek was an array of other glowing eyes; gold and blue. The nighttime air filled with the sound of reverberating growls and Stiles’s throat constricted as he went shock still.

Peter’s face turned back to normal and he turned toward his nephew with a sigh. “Ah, Derek. I found your little friend.”

“I told you not to touch him.”

“Oh,” Peter said, wrinkling his nose. “That. I didn’t mean to.”

_ “Peter.” _

Peter rolled his eyes and lifted his hands in a non-threatening gesture. But Stiles didn’t think anything about the man was non-threatening. He turned, though, as Derek started forward, watching the red in the man’s eyes fade until they weren’t glowing like blood anymore.

“Stiles,” Derek said, his voice taking a surprisingly gentle tone. “How did you get out of the hospital?”

Stiles clenched his jaw. Derek’s face tightened a little.

“Are you healing?”

Stiles thought it would be easier to say yes, make up some lie about his grand escape, and maybe punch Peter in the nose while he was at it. Instead of admitting that once more, that he didn’t know anything. He didn’t remember. His head was full of gaps and apparently, that wasn’t left in the past.

He was being haunted by blackouts now too.

“I fell asleep,” Stiles said, going with honesty despite himself. “And woke up here. I don’t know how it happened.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed and from the tilt of his head, it sounded like he was listening to something. Then he looked confused and stared at Stiles like he was a puzzle he didn’t understand. “You’re not lying.”

“No,” Stiles said. “I’m not. Why the hell would I lie about something like that?”

Derek’s eyebrows flew up and Peter chuckled behind him. Derek shot his uncle a warning look and growled a little. And finally, Stiles had enough.

“What are you?”

Derek looked sharply back at him. Stiles scanned him up and down, shoving the colored eyes, the fangs, the claws, and the growling all together. He stared and Derek clenched his jaw. “I think you know.”

“Then what am I?”

This time, it was obvious Derek didn’t have an answer. Stiles ground his teeth together in frustration. 

“I’m not going back to the hospital.”

“You think you’re the one to make that call?”

“It’s not going to do anything,” Stiles said, balling up his fists. “And for all we know, I’ll get back there and then end up somewhere in the town again. I’m not going back.”

“We?”

Stiles blinked. Then his face turned hot and he glared at the man— no, werewolf. Glared at him in anger and frustration because how was any of this fair? Stiles was haunted by his own head. Somehow, he’d ended up in that alleyway. Somehow, he’d gotten gashes carved into his back and nearly bled out into the night. And somehow, he couldn’t remember any of it.

Stiles kind of wanted to scream. Angry tears burned at his eyes and he looked sharply away. Because there was no ‘we’ he realized. He was alone in this.

That hurt more than it should.

“I’m not going back to the hospital,” he said. “And if you make me, I’ll be gone by tomorrow morning.”

Once more, Derek studied him. Tilted his head an inch. And then frowned.

But before he could say a word, a younger boy stepped forward. One that looked like he couldn’t be older than eighteen or nineteen; twenty at the most. He had a crooked jaw and soft brown eyes. Ones that swept over Stiles and then flitted to Derek.

“He should stay with us.”

Derek went rigid at that and, to his surprise, Stiles did too. Because that was the last thing he’d expected.

“No, Scott,” Derek said in a growl. “I’m not taking that—” he pointed a finger over and red hot anger rose in Stiles’s throat. “Into my home. Into the pack. Our pack.”

“It’s not only your decision to make,” Scott said, and Stiles saw a flicker of red in his eyes too. His chest tightened.

“He’s not wrong, nephew,” Peter called, and the man was practically  _ singing _ those words.  Derek shot him another growl and then glared back at Scott. But before he could say a word, a red-haired girl moved to Scott’s side. She didn’t even spare Stiles a second glance.

“Would you rather we chase him around the town all over again tomorrow? It’d be better if we were close, Derek. Keep an eye on what…” she finally looked over and her sharp green eyes were scarily intelligent as they met Stiles's own. “Happens.”

Derek looked at Stiles like everything was his fault. Which might be true, but he never asked for them to track him here in the first place. Why the hell would any of them care anyway?

Stiles was starting to wish he’d never woken up in that alleyway at all.

“I don’t trust him,” Derek ground out. “We don’t know what he is or where he came from. He could be a threat. He could be a monster.”

Stiles barely resisted flinching at that. But the girl didn’t look impressed. “Derek.”

“He’s not coming to the loft.”

“So you’d rather release him into the town and see what happens?”

“No, but I—”

“Then it’s decided,” the red-haired girl said. “He comes back to the loft and there'll be four werewolves to make sure nothing happens.”

"Five," Peter grumbled. She ignored him.

Derek looked like he’d rather tear off his own face than agree, but he only flashed his eyes one more time and turned away, stalking back into the trees. Peter scoffed dramatically before turning to follow. Stiles just stood there, shuffling from foot to foot, unsure what to do with himself.

Scott gave him a gentle look. “Don’t worry about Derek. His bark is worse than his bite.”

“Unless you don’t want to be a werewolf,” a blonde-haired girl snorted as she stepped forward. She crossed her arms and looked Stiles up and down, and then smirked at him. “You’re like a twig. I bet I could break you with one hand.”

“Erica—”

But Stiles only glared at her. “Want to try?”

The girl’s eyes flashed to gold and her smirk widened. “Oh, I like that. Yep, we’re keeping him. Come on, whatever you are, we’re going back to the loft and if you even think about running, Boyd over there will forcibly carry you.”

Stiles followed her gaze to a stockily built dark-skinned boy, who rolled his eyes at Erica’s comment. Still, Stiles decided he didn’t want to test it.

Going into the custody of werewolves was not how he’d seen his night going. Though, he hadn’t seen anything beyond going to sleep in a hospital bed. And Stiles thought maybe it would be a good idea. Not just for himself but… he didn’t remember a thing. He didn’t know what he was, what he’d done. 

Because he had to have done something, right? The memories didn’t add up. The wounds on his back didn’t make sense.  But maybe he deserved them. Maybe he’d done something terrible. Those very thoughts made Stiles shiver; because maybe Derek was right not to trust him at all.

Maybe, without realizing it, Stiles was a monster.


	6. Chapter 6

Derek decidedly wasn’t happy.

He wasn’t happy about quite a lot of things. For one, he wasn’t happy Peter had directly gone against his orders. For two, he wasn’t happy where they’d found Peter directly going against his orders. And for three, he wasn’t happy about what they had acquired out of Peter going directly against his orders.

Basically, Derek wasn’t happy with Peter. And he wasn’t happy about the things Peter had inflicted on his pack.

Again.

Derek didn’t trust Stiles. Yeah, he could be intrigued by him and feel bad for him; all of that was fine. But he didn’t trust him. And Derek had no idea what had made his betas all suddenly decide that Stiles was okay.

He was an unknown. For all they knew, he could be a threat. A weapon. And Derek didn’t trust him. But even so, Stiles was coming to his loft and there was nothing Derek could do about it.

So yeah, he was decidedly unhappy.

The betas arrived at the loft within the hour, Stiles in tow.

The boy shifted his feet and glance around, amber eyes tracking over the walls, adjoining rooms, and meager things that Derek had decorated the loft with. He kept rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, right above his bandages, and his scent set Derek on edge.

He didn’t understand how the rest of the betas either didn’t smell it or didn’t care. There was something wrong with Stiles and Derek didn’t like it.

The boy’s amber eyes moved sideways and locked with Derek’s own. Derek scowled even further and then smothered the expression when Stiles seemed to shrink even more into himself.

Scott came from down one of the hallways with a stack of blankets and a pillow in his arms. Derek didn’t even remember inviting him to come along too.

“You can sleep on the couch!” The young Alpha said cheerfully, pushing the blankets into Stiles’s arms. The boy stood there for a moment, looking confused, and a bit of Scott’s smile melted as he nodded toward the kinda ratty piece of furniture that Derek called a couch.

Stiles glanced toward it too and silently, nodded. Derek scowled again. Scott only frowned.

“If that’s not going to… hurt your back, that is.”

“No,” Stiles said. “I, uh, think it’s pretty much healed by now.”

“What.”

Stiles looked over, startled. But Derek didn’t pay the expression any attention, moving closer and making Stiles retreat a step back. He cursed internally, pausing, and glared at the boy.

“What do you mean, it’s pretty much healed?”

“... It doesn’t hurt anymore?”

“You weren’t healing earlier.”

Stiles’s eyes suddenly flashed and a bit of his obvious nervousness died as he lifted his chin, giving Derek a cold look. “Yeah, well, apparently I am now.”

“Why.”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Hell,” Peter said from across the room, arms crossed as he eyed Stiles. The man almost looked… amused. “That’s something.”

Derek glared at his uncle. “What do you know?”

“Nothing, possibly.

“Possibly.”

“I said what I said.”

Derek swore he hated everything sometimes. Rolling his eyes, he fixed Stiles with a final glare and then toward the betas. 

“Those of you who don’t live here can go home. Those of you who do can go to your rooms.”

“Oh my god,” Erica said, rolling her eyes. Derek gave her a flat look, letting a little bit of red bleed into his eyes, and she held his gaze for a long moment before grabbing Boyd’s arm and starting toward her room with a slight growl. 

Derek turned the same gaze toward Isaac, but the beta was already heading out of the room. Before Derek could say anything else, Lydia stepped forward.

“You take care of him,” she said, softly almost. Derek raised an eyebrow and the red-head nodded toward Stiles. “Don't screw this up.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious, Derek,” Lydia said, giving him a sharp look again. “Right now, he’s one of us. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Don’t forget he’s the victim in this scenario; and he doesn't seem to remember a thing. How would you feel?”

Derek resisted flinching, putting a glare on his face instead. Lydia only rolled her eyes and turned, red hair flipping over her shoulder. Derek watched her go before turning back to Stiles.

Scott was standing too close to the boy, he thought. He always let his guard down too easily.

“I know you don’t have a phone,” the boy was saying, looking a little nervous. “But if you need anything, just ask Der— er, one of the betas. Not Peter. And uh, try not to run away again. My mom has been calling me all night in a panic.”

“Your mom?”

“She was one of your nurses.”

Derek watched as Stiles’s face softened and he nodded. Scott brightened, eyes aglow, and carefully patted Stiles on the shoulder before turning toward the loft door too.

Soon it was just Derek, Peter, and Stiles left in the same room.

The boy looked uncomfortable again.

“So, uh—”

“My room is the first one off the hall,” Derek said, starting toward it. “So I’ll be the first one to hear if you do anything.”

Stiles snapped his jaw shut, a small light coming to life in his eyes once more. His scent seemed to shift when he did that. Becoming less musty and grey and more… lifelike. Derek could almost call it autumn leaves with a touch of cinnamon.

Or whatever.

“And I’m upstairs,” Peter said, almost too smugly. “If the couch is too uncomfortable.”

Stiles gave Peter a dubious look. The man only grinned all teeth.

Derek slammed his bedroom door shut.

He was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one who should be so on edge about this. Stiles… he didn’t understand Stiles. The boy knew him right off the bat. Or, he knew  _ of  _ him. Derek was pretty sure that unsettled him more.

He smelled wrong. He didn’t act right.

He’d shown up in the middle of the preserve in front of the Hale house. Derek’s house.

Derek’s home.

And now he was less than twenty feet away and all Derek could do was listen to his heartbeats. Too quick, too soft, beating like a drum. Derek tried not to concentrate on it. Tried to push all thoughts from his ears, even as he found the sound silently lulling him to sleep.

Along with the faint traces of cinnamon.

-

Stiles knew better than to attempt running again.

He laid on the couch staring at the ceiling and weighing his options. He couldn’t run again; or he shouldn’t, he knew. These were werewolves and they track him down within a matter of hours. And Stiles didn’t like the Alpha or the one with blue eyes.

He didn’t think he wanted to piss them off.

Still, as Stiles laid on the couch and stared at nothing, he weighed what else he could possibly do. What did they think he was going to do? What the hell did they want with him?

Stiles couldn’t remember longer than a few days ago and he wasn’t planning on flipping out or something. At worst, whoever had left him in the alleyway might come back. But Stiles figured that was his problem.

And he didn’t plan on bringing anyone else down with him.

He listened to the sounds of snoring slowly fill the air down the hallways and realized soon that he was the only one still awake. Gingerly, Stiles sat up, one hand reaching back to trace along the bandages wrapped around his shoulders.

He didn’t really feel the pain anymore. Just phantom caresses sometimes, like there was something brushing against his shoulders. Or like he was missing something.

Stiles felt like he was missing something, he just didn’t know what.

Slowly, he stood. A quick pause and glanced around the loft proved that the rest of the inhabitants were still asleep and Stiles plodded toward where he’d spotted the bathroom, closing the door behind him and stripping off his ripped and dirtied hospital gown.

Looking in the mirror, Stiles realized the blood from earlier had been cleaned off of him. He stared as if he was seeing himself for the first time, amber eyes that Stiles didn’t recognize blinking back at him. Slowly, he reached up and traced careful fingers over his bandages. His stomach flipped and Stiles trailed then lower, dancing along ribs that stuck out through his skin. 

He swallowed hard and drew his hand upward again. Carefully, he fitted his fingernails underneath the bandages and started to peel them off.

Stiles couldn’t help wincing as he peeled the red-stained cloth from where his wounds had been. It didn’t hurt, not really, but he felt like it should. He closed his eyes and pulled them off, gritting his teeth tight.

Soon, there were two coils of bloody bandages on the floor. Stiles stared at them before lifting his gaze and looking at himself in the mirror once more.

He turned slightly to the side. And narrowly bit back a sharp cry.

There were angry red marks marring across his back. Like red canyons covered by tender flesh, standing out against Stiles’s pale skin. He reached back and traced trembling fingers over one, biting back another whimper. This should have killed him. He should be dead.

Suddenly, the door was opening up.

Stiles spun around to see Derek standing stock-still. The werewolf quickly averted his eyes and Stiles gathered up his hospital gown, pulling it against his chest.

“What?”

“... Would you like me to get you some clothes?”

Stiles blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that.

But still, silently, he nodded and Derek vanished again. The door closed with a click and Stiles didn’t dare move, goosebumps dancing along his skin. After what felt like forever, Derek came back with a bundle of clothes in hand. There was a shirt too, Stiles noticed with relief. And a sweatshirt.

He quickly tugged them on, almost feeling safer underneath two layers. Derek watched him quietly, face not betraying a thing.

“They scarred.”

Stiles froze, thumbs still hooked underneath the waistband of his sweats. After a moment, he finished rolling them over his hips and then nodded, avoiding looking back in the mirror. “They did.”

“It looks… bad.”

“Thanks, Sourwolf.”

The man blinked at the nickname and Stiles felt his face grow warm. He ducked around the werewolf and started back toward the couch, surprised when Derek followed. 

“Is there something else you want?”

“I heard you moving around.”

“Okay.”

“Your scent changed,” Derek said. It sounded like he was going for gruff but there was a slight twinge to his tone. Stiles couldn’t place it. “Smelled more sour than usual.”

“You can smell me?”

Stiles actually could’ve sworn Derek turned red. The man clenched his jaw, averting his eyes, and nodded once. Stiles tilted his head and studied the man’s face.

“What does it smell like?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Slightly red-eyes fixed him in place. “Death.”

Stiles felt like he’d been punched. Derek looked guilty for a moment and opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, but then he closed it again. Growling, the man turned back toward his room. 

“Stop moving around. You’re making too much noise.”

Stiles sat there in the silence as the man left him alone. For a moment, he felt  _ shattered.  _ Because that was proof there was something wrong with him. He must have done something.  The scars on his back must have a reason.

Stiles didn’t fall back asleep. He just sat there, staring at nothing, wrapped in foreign clothes and drowning in the darkness. He felt sick. He felt wrong.

He wondered if Derek could smell all of that.

Stiles didn’t go back to sleep. He just stayed there and wondered.

Wondered if he really was a monster.

**Author's Note:**

> I keep telling myself to stop starting wips, but then I get on Tumblr and get inspired. So here we are, friends, my first fallen angel fic. Of course, the comments/support you guys leave makes my day and I'd love to hear what you think!
> 
> Come hang with me on Tumblr!
> 
> [the dumpster](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)


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